“I am not allied with the Roses,” Hastings said stiffly. “Even if our interests temporarily coincide, we'll end up fighting them in the end.”

“So this is what I get for failing,” Jason said bitterly. “I'm out.”

Hastings drained his glass and slammed it back down on the table. “This is what you get for taking a foolish chance for no good reason. Do you think your face isn't known? D'Orsay's no fool. Do you think I advise a nondescript appearance because I'm a bloody conservative?You're overconfident, Jason, and you're flamboyant and careless, and that combination is going to get you killed. I don't want to be responsible for the mess you leave behind.”

This was ironic coming from a man who had one of the most memorable faces and personages of anyone Jason had ever known. Whose daring escapades were legendary.

Jason leaned across the table. “Listen to me. I'll lose the earring.” He touched his earlobe. “I'll lose the plumage.” He sluiced his fingers through his bleached hair. “I'll wear a bloody tweed and ascot if that's what you want. Just let me stay and work with you.”

Hastings sighed. “Don't think this means it's all gone wrong.” He rested his hand on the backpack. “This is a tremendous find. Sometimes I'm not very…liberal with compliments.”

“I don't want compliments. I want to stay here. I want to do something.”

“And I want someone I can trust to take these things back to Trinity before D'Orsay manages to track us down. Do you think he's not looking?” Hastings sat back, extending his long legs. “It's not enough to do something. It's important to do the right thing.”

“I know it is,” Jason said, trying not to sound sullen. “But nothing's going to happen in Trinity.”

“Don't be too sure. I have a feeling that the pieces you found are important. The battle may well turn on them.”

“Then why take them to Trinity? You'll put the whole town in danger.”

“That is exactly why no one must discover where they are. And, bear in mind: if we lose this war, Trinity will be destroyed along with' everything else.”

Jason stood and began pacing, pivoting at each end of the room. “Can't you at least try to understand?”

“I understand you better than you realize.”

“Why? The Roses killed your father and sister a hundred years ago so you understand how I feel about Leicester and D'Orsay murdering my father?”

“Because I know what it's like to want to prove yourself so badly it destroys everything else that matters,” Hastings replied, gazing into the fire. “Sometimes it's just an excuse to avoid dealing with your own demons.”

So now Hastings was a psychiatrist, in addition to being a wizard and warrior master. Jason bit back a hot reply. “Look. I'm an orphan. Like you were. No one cares what happens to me. It's my choice. Mine.”

“I assumed responsibility for you when I brought you to Britain.”

Jason noticed that Hastings didn't claim to care about him. “Please. I want to help.” He was perilously close to begging. “Jack and Ellen are out drilling their warriors. That's what they're good at. Seph is maintaining the barrier. I can't do any of that. I want to be where I'm useful.”

“The most useful thing you can do for me now is to get the sword and the rest back to Trinity,” Hastings said, without looking up. “Have Nick take a look at the blade. It may very well be one of the seven. If it is, pass it along to Ellen. She deserves a weapon worthy of her skills. She and Jack may play a critical role if it comes to a war.”

Nick. Ellen. Seph. Jack. All important to the Cause. Everyone was except him.

Jason knew the argument was over. His mistake was thinking Hastings was actually participating. He slumped back into his chair. “When will you come back to Trinity?”

The wizard shrugged. “Soon, I hope. I'm going to try to find out what's going on at Raven's Ghyll. Whether it's been noticed that things have gone missing, and whether they may be on your trail. Maybe I can muddy the water a bit. Draw them off.”

And that, as they say, was that. Jason's brief career as operative for the Dragon House was over.

Jason fell asleep on the tube on the way back to his apartment, missing the Mornington Crescent station and getting off at Camden Town. He walked back through the city streets to clear his head. On his way, he stopped in at an Internet cafe and booked a flight from Heathrow to New York that departed the following morning.

So the man loitering near the Underground exits at Mornington Crescent with a photograph of Jason Haley didn't spot him there.

Jason stopped in to see a girl who lived in the building next door to his own. They ordered pizza and he stayed late. By then, it was sleeting. The buildings were set atop a common cellar, so he passed through the laundries into his own building without going outside.

So the woman sheltering in the entryway of Jason's apartment building didn't realize her fox had gone to ground.

Back in his room, Jason packed up his meager belongings. He'd planned to take the train from Euston, but now Hastings had gone and made him jumpy. In the end, he called a car service and booked a car to pick him up at 4 a.m. He gave his name as Bob Roberts and didn't name a destination. He'd bring his backpack as a carry-on, and convince the airline to let him gate-check the golf bag with the sword in it. Golfers were funny about letting go of their clubs, weren't they?

He'd only been in the UK for a few months. He hoped his banishment wouldn't last long.

Chapter Four The Art of the Deal

Leesha Middleton shook the snow from her curls and extended her frozen hands toward the fire. Why couldn't Claude D'Orsay den up in Belize for the winter, like any sane person?

She glanced around the parlor with an educated eye. Everything had a stuffy, old-money look, like the museum rooms at her grandparents' estates. They smelled the same, too—like cigars and leather and old men's musty wool cardigans. Leesha ran a finger under her high-necked sweater and touched the gold collar—the tore—that circled her neck. Touching it was becoming a habit.

“Who are you?”

Leesha jumped and turned round.

The boy had slipped up behind her. He was slender and bookish-looking, with blond curls, a fair complexion, and eyes that were such a pale blue—behind frameless glasses—as to be almost colorless. He might have been fourteen, too young to be interesting, though Leesha was only seventeen herself. He was almost pretty, but the effect was marred by a black eye and a nose that had been recently broken.

“I'm Alicia Middleton,” she said, seeing no reason to lie.

“Devereaux D'Orsay,” the boy replied, standing rather too close and staring fixedly into her face. “Father didn't mention we were expecting guests.”

“Didn't he?” It hadn't been easy to get this invitation. A fax of the last page of the Covenant signed by the guilds at Second Sister had done the trick. She'd ordered her grandparents' chauffeur, Charles, to drive her here from their estate in Scotland. If she could manage to live through the day and avoid being grounded, she'd be very very lucky.

“Would you care for something to drink?” Devereaux asked, nodding toward the sideboard, where there was an array of bottles and cans of soda.

Leesha shook her head. “No, thank you.”

The boy leaned against the sideboard. “We've more of a selection down in the cellar,” he said. “Would you like to see?”

“No, I'm quite all right, thank you.” Looking to change the subject, she said, “Who beat you up?”

That struck a nerve. “No one beat me up, Miss Middleton,” the boy said, straightening, his fair face flushing dark rose against the bruises. “From a power standpoint, I totally had the advantage. Had it not been for…”

“Devereaux.”

Now it was the boy's turn to jump and look guilty.

Claude D'Orsay stood framed in the doorway, dressed in wool trousers, cashmere sweater, and tweed jacket. The wizard's hair was dark and close-cropped, his face fine-boned and aristocratic.

“Miss Middleton, a pleasure to see you again. I see you've met my son.”

“Yes,” Leesha replied. “I wouldn't have known it from his looks.”

“He favors my late wife.” D'Orsay came into the room and extended his hand to Leesha. His grip was cool and dry, with a wizard's electrical sting.

“You didn't tell me anyone was coming, Father.” Devereaux still looked sullen. “How was I supposed to know who she was?”

“It was rather short notice, Dev,” D'Orsay replied. “Miss Middleton requested a meeting.” He studied Leesha appraisingly. “I believe the last time we met was here, at Raven's Ghyll, at the last tournament.”

“That was a disaster,” Leesha said bluntly.

D'Orsay didn't disagree, but nodded toward the sideboard. “Would you like something?”

“No, thank you,” Leesha replied, wondering how many times she was going to have to refuse refreshment before leaving.

D'Orsay gestured to one of two chairs by the hearth. “Please. Sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

Leesha sat, not particularly comfortably, and D'Orsay sat down opposite her. Devereaux slouched onto the hearth itself, clearly intending to listen, if not to participate.

Leesha nodded at Devereaux, and raised an eyebrow.

“Dev can stay. I value his opinion.” D'Orsay paused. “So. Are you here representing Jessamine Longbranch?”

“Why would you think that?”

“I believe you were working for her last year when you— ah—brought those two young men here as hostages during the last tournament. Friends of that bizarre mongrel warrior she created. Jack Swift. Now that was a disaster.”

“Must've seemed like a good idea at the time,” Leesha said. “Anyway, I'm not working for her anymore.”